A Watery Grave
by Januscars
Summary: There was just one problem. Lestrade couldn't swim.
1. Chapter 1

**A Watery Grave**

**Chapter 1  
**

The waves crashed and rolled against the side of the lifeboat. The four of them clung to the edges, desperate to stay inside as the waves threw them into the air, and then caught them, a wet child playing with a yellow rubber toy. John, Sherlock, Dimmock, Lestrade. They clung with grim determination, in the desperate struggle to preserve life. The boat had gone down - had someone sabotaged it? Perhaps, perhaps not. All they knew was that they weren't on it any more. That, at the moment, was all they could think about.

There was no sign of anything. No landmarks, no sun no moon, no way to turn. If they were going around in circles, the view would not seem any different. They didn't know if they were heading towards land, or further out to sea, although they could conceivably be going toward both alternately.

The rain beat down upon them - how unfair life was, that they should be drenched from below and above. No helicopter could fly in this weather, no plane would see them through the storm. They could only hope they would survive until the waves died down.

Greg groaned in pain. His leg was bleeding, and he couldn't move it properly (from the cold, or injury he couldn't tell). John was next to him, trying to bandage it up as best he could. Sherlock had his arm hooked over the doctor's chest as an anchor, so that John could use both hands. Dimmock kept a tight hold on Greg, but he was shivering so hard it was difficult to keep a hold on Greg's arm. Dimmock was the only thing that prevented Lestrade from tipping over the edge and into the sea. He couldn't swim in this state - it was unlikely he'd be able to keep his head above water for more than five minutes. He supposed he might be able to dog paddle a little. But not for long.

Lestrade had been on the boat as it had gone down, unable to jump. His leg had been momentarily trapped beneath a thick plank of wood, which John and Dimmock had removed while Sherlock released the lifeboat. Now he was crying in pain as the salt water asailed the laceration. Not that anyone would notice his tears. The water poured over them all in a drenching downpour, which made it impossible to tell what was rain, waves or just salt water in general. He felt as if they were in a washing machine.

John was fishing around in his pockets, desperation on his face. He turned to Sherlock and yelled into the wind, although they were less than two feet from each other.

"_Have you got a pocket knife?_" John screamed. Sherlock widened his eyes to indicate his lack of hearing, and John cupped his hands to his mouth, "_HAVE YOU GOT A POCKET KNIFE?"_

Sherlock nodded, hesitant to let go of the boat while he anchored John. The doctor took the cue, and let go of Greg, to hold onto Sherlock as he rummage to find a knife.

"_What do you need it for?" _Sherlock hollered at him, and John gestured to the ripped pant leg.

"_Cut it into strips!_" He screamed. Sherlock tried to keep his balance on the heaving surface of the rubber boat, but it was practically impossible. His hands were unreliable, and shook as he tried to cut the wet fabric. He coughed and choked momentarily as the wind blew another mouthful of ocean down his throat. His gullet was raw and the salt water made him gag. He rubbed his eyes to remove the water.

Faintly, he heard a scream. It was funny how faint the scream was, since John was right next to him. Sherlock turned at the sound, and then looked to the source of the fear.

His blood drained from his face, and his hand reached out to clamp over Lestrade's. _Oh god…_

Then the wave hit. The largest wave Sherlock had ever seen (perhaps not, but he was being swept away with it, it was hard not to blow the size out of proportion). It crashed upon them, a deluge of hard water that pounded them and forced them all to grab on a tight as they could - it seemed impossible, the amount of force the wave exerted on them. Mere water could do that. It foamed and billowed over them and pulled at their clothes, their hair, their faces. It was difficult to breath, and they felt the boat arch and dip beneath them.

It took every ounce of strength for Dimmock to hold himself to the boat. It felt like the entire ocean was pressed on his back, and he coughed. This only enabled him to suck in more water, and so he held his breath as long as he could. He couldn't hold himself down. And John was holding not only himself, but Sherlock and Greg as well.

Something had to give.

Something did give.

There was a rush of water, the wave having finally dispensed itself. Dimmock fell to the floor of the boat, scrabbling for a hold. John flung out an arm and grabbed him before he could slip over the side, and the Detective Inspector clutched onto his coat for dear life.

They stared at each other. The waves still roared, the boat still rocked, but the doctor and the detective were frozen, John clamping a hand on both the boat and Dimmock. They were both painfully, terrifyingly aware of the same fact.

They were the only two on the boat.

Sherlock and Lestrade were gone.


	2. Chapter 2

If the water had been a washing machine before, it was now a waterlogged cyclone. It spun Sherlock around without consideration for his frail human body. It dashed him upon those rocks buried underneath it, threw him aside and pulled him under. It went up his nose and into his mouth, sucking at him to pull him down. He struggled in its grip and frantically swam upwards. Air bubbles bursting in front of his face only reminded him that he had nothing to breath. The water fought against him, trying desperately to lure him further into its capacious maw. Black and yawning, the ocean opened out before him. His skull was bursting with pain as he held his breath and violent water smashed into it from all sides.

His head broke the surface for a second, and he coughed out a virtual torrent. His coat was pulling him down, so he quickly shed it and let it sink. The air whistled in his lungs and he felt relief wash over him. Right, well, he hadn't drowned. So what now? He cast his eyes around. Where was John? Greg? Dimmock? Where was the boat?

He spun around in a frenzied paddling circle, trying to spot a form - a person, or a boat, preferably both. He cast his mind back, trying to guess a direction in which he should battle the waves. John had been holding onto him through the water, he had been trying to get a hold himself. Then John's arm had slipped and he and Greg had tipped over the side the water had taken him and-

Lestrade. He was out in the water somewhere.

And, Sherlock remembered in a sudden rush, couldn't move his leg.

Sherlock felt his heart leap. A wave was steadily bearing down on him, and he closed his eyes, waiting for it to hit. Lestrade. He had to find Lestrade. He let the smashing water carry him for as long as he could hold his breath, hoping that the wave had dissipated, and then struggled back up to the surface. He had to struggle further than he had anticipated and felt his vision grow dimmer. He fought the water in a race to the top, sucking in huge breaths as he felt air on his face one more. Where was Greg?

He began to swim. There was no other option. He screamed Lestrade's name into the howling wind, knowing it was probably no use, but having no other way to turn. He retched and brought up a horrible mixture of bile and sea water, leaving his throat burning and mouth tasting of death and the sea.

At the moment those two seemed one and the same.

"LESTRADE!" he screamed, voice tearing his dry throat, know he had to try, the man could drown.

"LESTRADE!"

It was no use. He felt the waves butt gently against his head, and he turned. They were gentle, yes, but that was no comfort, because they were in the wake of a monster. A ravenous, flesh devouring wave, that tore towards him.

"_Sherlock!"_

The voice was so distant he could only just hear it at the edge of his mind. He whipped around, trying to find the source.

"LESTRADE!" he screamed, and heard the start of an answer - oh god, why had he screamed? He suddenly realised that it had not been a good idea. He now had no air in his lungs, and the wave was already crashing around his ears. The water - god he hated the water. It sucked him and tossed him and pulled his forward and backward, tearing at all sides in a slippery attempt to tear him in all directions. His lungs were already fighting to burst from his chest, and the water was not relenting.

He strove to the top, shoving water aside to reach the beautiful air. His eyes were burning with the water. Air was there, waiting for him up there. He could almost reach it, but the water was pushing too hard against him, and his head was not breaking the surface, his eyes were misting, his head was bursting and his lungs were screaming at him to breath in the water, to breath in death and oblivion - how he would like to breath it all in, but he couldn't because Lestrade needed his help, he had to get to Lestrade-

He felt air on his face. For a moment he thought it was just the water, that cruel water trying to trick him into breathing it in. But then he heard his name again and could have cried with happiness. Air, beautiful air, it was rushing down his lungs. He pulled his hair out of his face and laughed weakly.

"LESTRADE!" he bellowed, hearing a response from nearby. He struck out, fighting against the waves and trying to avoid the sharp chunks of rocks, half swimming, half scrambling toward where the voice had come from. Thank god the man was down wind. He didn't have to fight the waves so much.

He slipped over the edge of another swell, sliding into the foamy left over of the previous monster. He rubbed the water out of his eyes and opened them, just in time to see Lestrade slip beneath the waves. Sherlock cried out, swimming forwards, trying to reach the man. _Come on,_ he thought, _swim back to the surface. Come on, you can do it._

But there was no sign of life where Lestrade had sunk. The man was beneath the waves, longer than he should have been. Sherlock shook his hair out of his eyes, diving desperately forward, being pulled back by the ripping tide. He took a deep breath and submerged himself beneath the waves.

He could just see an indistinct form, thrashing with his arms. But Lestrade didn't have the power of his legs to drive him up, and was making no progress. Sherlock battled the currents, trying to reach him. He was almost there. Stupid water, it was pulling him back. He could see Lestrade's arms begin to tire, the thrashing was weaker - he knew what was happening, no, this was not going to happen. Sherlock stuck out against the water, lungs popping and head throbbing, vision beginning to fade as the water pressed in.

He hooked a hand under Lestrade's now limp arm, and began the slow climb back to the surface. He couldn't breath. His lungs were bursting, his ears were popping and his eyes were growing ever dimmer. He could see the surface fo the water, it was taunting him. He couldn't reach, he wasn't going to make it-

And then his head broke the surface. He coughed and drew in huge lungfuls of air. Lestrade's head broke the water a second later, and he coughed violently, grabbing onto Sherlock's shoulder as his lungs spasmed. They coughed together, the waves sending them spinning, but it didn't matter because they could breath, they was alive. Bedraggled, bleeding and half-drowned, but alive.

Greg clutched at Sherlock's arm as the coughing subsided. Sherlock shook his wet hair out of his eyes and looked down at the DI, who was holding onto his arm like it was a liferaft. Which, when he really thought about it, it sort of was.

"Back with us?" he croaked. Lestrade coughed, trying to speak. It was unfortunately beyond him, and he spiralled into a hacking fit.

The waves tossed them, and they clung to each other. Two shivering men, lost in the grip of the endless sea.


End file.
